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Logbook to the middle ages. II

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However, the welcomed feeling of relief does not come without some perks being lost. The first one is my status. I have been degraded to a normal existence of a laborer. I have, like many a mighty man, fallen. And the first sign of such degradation is that this company that hires me now does not love me enough to fly me over the Atlantic in Business Class. Not even in Economy Plus.
No, I am to be tortured by the Luftwaffe.
By that I obviously mean Lufthansa, the efficient German airline, which is my choice of carrier. Or actually, their choice of carrier. I depart late at night in seat 44A, cramped for a total of 11 hours just to reach midpoint. Lufthansa gives me a terrible meal consisting of spaghetti with some Ragu sauce but to my surprise LH still grants you some wine. I have two glasses and decide that prior to falling asleep I must visit the restrooms. I get up and quickly get lost. And by getting lost in a plane I mean that I canít find the bathrooms. I go forth until I meet the discrete curtain that separates the dogs from the masters and there is no bathroom there. I return to the back of the plane and neither. And I am surprised because I know this plane really well. I have flown an Airbus 340 many times. And it is only then I remember the above.
In Business. Not here. I have no idea where the restrooms are because I have never been to the back of this plane. So, like a dog asking his master if he can go out to the garden to pee, I stop and ask and am told that the bathrooms are in the lower deck. A clear metaphor of how much I have sunk.
I have to spend 5 hours in Frankfurt-Mein. And I again start remembering the little details of international flights. The multicultural population of the airport, the many languages that you can hear in the single span of an hour. In FRA I quickly bump into the obvious German, French and English, in several accents. Italian quickly comes along, then Russian and the Orientals: the rapid staccato of Chinese, the ping-pongy beat of Hindi, the awesome fluency of Japanese. And then I come across the new ones, for me: Albanian, as I sit in the waiting area, surrounds me, a mouth full of a slushy melody that seems pleasant. Something that if one was to be able to speak might have been conducive to some poetry.
I board my plane. Time to cross the Adriatic.

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Tags: albania, berat, job, work
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